Waking up, I see Isaiah by the entrance door, his gun in hand, staring at the cold morning blizzard outside. The storm is still raging. He didn't wake me—did he stay up all night?
"Yo? You good, Isaiah?" I ask.
"Yeah, just thinking." His tone is distant. There's something weighing on his mind. He's no older than us, but he has more experience. I can see the concern in his face.
"Wake the others." He opens his revolver, checking the bullets. "Let's get some answers." His determined expression says everything.
We rouse the group and gather what's left of our food and water, packing it into a backpack for Chris to carry. As we prepare to head out, Isaiah turns to Zack, who's still nursing his side.
"Are you good to walk?"
Zack stretches slightly and winces. "Won't be a problem."
He flashes a grin, but it's tight, forced. As we move to the right-side building, descending the stairs, I notice the slight hitch in his step. He's trying to hide it, but each shift in weight makes it obvious—his gait uneven, favoring his left leg.
"Stick together. Don't wander off. Stay behind me," Isaiah instructs as he leads the way.
Zack scoffs as he walks past me, sword in hand. "Who put him in charge?"
The spiraling steps descend into darkness, the walls tight and silent except for the occasional echo of our footsteps and Zack's slight shuffle.
Flashing red lights glow faintly as we go deeper.
"Seems like the alarm was set off. Stay on your toes," Isaiah warns. Without a word, we follow.
The hallways are empty. Papers litter the floor, chairs are overturned, desks are broken, and shattered glass crunches beneath our feet. We move forward.
11, 16, 22, 28… finally, Room 34. The last door.
The vault door is almost fully open, clearly damaged. Sparks fly from the keypad beside it.
"I got this," Zack says, moving to help Isaiah—then pauses, grimacing as his leg gives a bit.
Before he can get a grip, I step forward and take over, nodding at him. "I got it."
He gives a quick shrug and leans back, letting me and Isaiah pull the heavy door aside.
"I got it," Zack says, stepping up with Isaiah to slide the heavy vault door aside.
We step into a dark, red-lit room. The computers are destroyed, the overhead lights flicker, and wires dangle from the ceiling. But one thing stands out—a circular, pristine white room at the center. A single chair sits beneath a bright light, and in it, an old man calmly reads a book.
"Oh? Visitors?" His voice is smooth, unbothered.
Shocked, we stand there in silence. Isaiah moves protectively in front of Chris before speaking. "Who are you, and why are you in there?"
The old man appears to be in his sixties, his coarse white hair wild and uneven, as if snapped off rather than cut. His long, tangled beard is unkempt and stained, adding to his weathered appearance. One eye, clouded by a jagged scar, is dull and lifeless, while the other gleams—a sharp, intelligent crimson, burning like embers in the dark.
His suit, once fine, is now tattered and frayed, the sleeves hanging loose over his knotted, scarred fingers. Stitching runs along his arms and neck, as if he's been crudely patched together. A burn mark stretches across the side of his neck, its edges raw and uneven.
Despite his ragged state, he carries himself with quiet endurance—weathered but unbroken, a man who has survived more than most.
[Jayden.]
A voice I haven't heard in a long time.
"Goldie? Where have you been all this time?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice low.
[Jayden, that man is a Myth. Be careful Inheritor, do not let him out.]
The voice fades again.
The old man leans back. "Isn't it polite to introduce yourselves when entering someone's home uninvited?"
A Myth? Gilgamesh hasn't responded to me in ages, and now he warns me about this guy?
Zack steps closer, sword raised. "Hey, old man, I've had enough of this bullshit. You're gonna tell us what's going on here, or I'll cut you up."
The old man remains unfazed, simply staring at Zack. "It would be best for you to release me."
Zack flashes a cocky grin. "You think you have the right to tell me what to do, old man?"
The old man taps the glass, pointing at the sword Zack grips. "What right? The right to human life? What about animals, beasts, gods, or devils? What are 'rights' when hunger takes hold? When the walls crumble and your own people turn on each other?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, his voice slow and deliberate, savoring each word. "You hold swords. You stand outside this cage. And you think that makes you free. But men have lived their entire lives believing they were free, only to die trapped by their own illusions—laws, morality, rights. Funny little stories you tell yourselves to help you sleep at night."
His gaze sweeps over us, his smirk widening. "But I've seen what happens when the stories end. When the food runs out. When the wolves come knocking. And then... ah, then you'll understand. The strong take. The weak suffer. And the world doesn't care. Seems to me we're all in the same situation."
Zack scoffs. "Ha! Same situation? Are you cracked, old man? You're in a cage!"
Isaiah steps forward. "Why are you in a cage?"
The old man examines him before answering. "Disgruntled employees. I made the mistake of trusting the wrong people."
No one believes him. But one thing is certain—he knows more than us.
"I'll tell you what, kids," he continues. "If you let me out, I'll help you leave this world. See those buttons?" He gestures toward a control panel near the glass. "There's a red one and a green one. Press the green button and turn the red one to the right, and I'll make sure you get out."
His voice carries authority, as if we have no other choice.
We exchange uncertain glances. How long has he been here? Can we trust him? Did he bring us here? We're drowning in questions, but this man has answers. The real question is—do we trust him?
After a moment, Isaiah steps toward the controls. "If we let you out, you'll help us get out of here safely?"
The old man smirks, dragging a finger across his chest in an exaggerated motion. "Cross my heart."
As his finger moves, his flesh splits open, blood welling up in a sharp crimson line.
Isaiah hesitates, then presses the green button.
"Do not let him out."
A voice from behind makes us freeze. We turn to see a tall figure stawalking in from the darkness. His dreadlocks are tied back, and he wears a black-and-white jacket. The white sheath of his sword glows faintly.
"Huh? Who the fuck are you now?" Zack glares at him.
The tall man steps forward, swinging his sword in the air. Two rifts distort the space around him, opening like portals. Several men armed with rifles step out, followed by a suited man with glasses. "Stand down, Sergeant Matthews."
Isaiah stiffens. "You know me?"
The suited man pulls out credentials.
"I am agent Frank DarrelI and I work for the United States of America's Special Containment of Artifacts Division. We're here to escort you all home."
"Tch, fucking government bastards." Zack spits on the floor, glancing back at the old man.
Isaiah speaks up "Sir, what's going on?"
Artifacts? I instinctively cover my ring, trying to hide it. I notice Zack creeping toward the controls. Is he going to let the old man out? I can't tell what's right anymore, so I stay silent.
"Right now, we need to extract you and secure this facility. Let us handle the situation," the suited man says. "Hey—you, what are you—"
Zack turns the red knob.
A loud hiss echoes as the glass shatters.
The old man stretches his arms. "Ah, yessss. Thank you, my boy."
"Deal's a deal, right?!" Zack shouts.
"You have my word."
"Shoot him now!" the suited man yells.
A sudden gust of wind explodes from the chamber, sending shards of glass flying. The soldiers flinch, some cut by the thick shards. Bullets rip through the air. The old man grabs his chair and hurls it at the suited man. Before it can hit, the tall man slashes it in half with his sword.
Then, the old man disappears.
A soldier screams.
I whip around just in time to see the old man biting into the soldier's neck, draining the blood from his body.
The soldier's lifeless corpse drops to the ground. The old man's skin glows, his wrinkles fading. Within seconds, he transforms from an old man into a young one.
"Ahhhhhhh. I haven't had a drink like that in years!" He wipes the blood from his lips and locks eyes with me.
Gunfire roars through the room, deafening and relentless. The tall man moves with precision, rifts opening and closing around him as he redirects soldiers away from the battle. The man in the suit barks orders over the chaos, his voice sharp.
"Get them to the portal! Sergeant Matthews, Portal now!"
Isaiah hesitates, gun raised, but his grip tightens at the command. Zack is less cooperative, his voice rising above the cacophony.
"How the hell are we supposed to get out of here!?"
The old man, still stretching as if shaking off years of confinement, points towards a shimmering distortion in the air—a forced tear in reality.
"That way, my boy," he grins, blood still fresh on his lips.
The tall man moves to intercept, slashing his sword through the air. A rift opens mid-strike, and the old man barely shifts in time to avoid being pulled through.
"I was hoping for a warm-up first," the old man chuckles, his body blurring as he moves faster than my eyes can track. He reappears behind the tall man, hand already swinging towards his neck.
The air distorts. Another rift opens. The strike lands against empty space as the tall man warps away, his footwork fluid, controlled.
This isn't just a fight—it's a battle between something beyond human. Every exchange sends shockwaves through the room, the sheer force toppling debris and shattering glass. The soldiers who remain are scrambling, retreating through portals as they struggle to keep up.
And I just stand there.
The old man is monstrous. But the tall man—he fights with the cold precision of someone who has done this countless times. I can't tell who is more dangerous.
[Inheritor, you can't trust either of them! You need to run!]
Gilgamesh's voice echoes in my head, sharp and urgent. My hands clench.
But I still don't move.
The old man catches the tall man mid-step, his fingers digging into his shoulder. The crack of bone fills the air before the tall man twists, slipping through another rift just before a killing blow can land.
I barely see it coming—the next portal opens behind me, and I have a split second before the tall man is there, his expression unreadable as he reaches out. Instinct kicks in, and I take a step back, my hands up.
"Hey, what are you doing, man?" I demand.
"No time," he says flatly.
A rift opens right behind me. Before I can react, he drives a punch straight toward my stomach.
A body slams into me from the side—Zack.
"Screw these government guys! That portal right there—let's go!" Zack shouts, dragging me along as the old man lunges at the tall man once more.
The old man moves in a blur, his fist colliding with the tall man's blade mid-strike. Sparks fly, the force of impact rippling through the air. The tall man twists, creating another rift, vanishing just as the old man's kick whips through empty space.
Zack and I bolt toward the portal. My heart pounds as Zack jumps in first, his form disappearing into the swirling distortion.
Behind us, the tall man shifts tactics. With a single, explosive motion, he sends the old man hurtling into a concrete wall. Cracks web out from the impact.
The old man groans, then smirks. His hand snatches a soldier scrambling away, dragging him in close. His fangs sink in. The soldier's body jerks, then stills as blood drains from his neck.
Gunfire erupts. The remaining soldiers open fire, bullets ripping through the air. Some hit their mark, but the old man barely seems to notice. His wounds knit together before my eyes.
I don't get the chance to process it.
The tall man appears before me. His fist drives into my ribs, sending me flying in the opposite direction. My back hits the cold ground, the impact rattling through my bones.
I grit my teeth, forcing my body to move. I can't let this happen.
Then, a voice—one I haven't heard in what feels like forever.
[Run.]
My body stiffens. "Goldie?"
[That man is dangerous. You need to get out of here now.]
"He's too fast!" I snapped, chest rising and falling heavily. "Help me!"
[I can't. Your synchronization is still blocked. I don't have enough control.]
My mind reels. "What does that even mean?!"
[No time,] Gilgamesh says quickly, his voice strained. [Listen—before, you felt something, didn't you? That fire in your veins. That's the source of my power. Channel it, and you might be able to dodge his attacks.]
"Dodge?!" I almost laughed. "What good is dodging?! I need to beat him!"
[No, you need to run!]
I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing—on the heat, the fire. Gilgamesh's words echo in my mind.
Then, I feel it.
The warmth spreads from the ring, searing through my veins like liquid adrenaline. My heart beats faster—but my body feels lighter.
Maybe… maybe I can do this.
The man moves.
The blade slams into me, but something's off—the edge isn't cutting. The impact sends a deep, bruising pain leaving me out of breath, but there's no sharpness, no tearing of flesh. He's not using the blade to kill me.
The portal crackles to life behind me. Close—too close. My body reacts before I can even think, twisting just enough that when the next hit comes—a brutal punch—it sends me skidding sideways instead of straight into the void.
I can't block. I can't dodge. Every attack lands, sending me to the ground but not into his portal. And yet—I'm still getting up.
The fire inside me flares, heat licking up my veins like it's answering something—something instinctual. My breathing steadies despite the chaos. I don't know how, but I'm moving, reacting, surviving.
I smirk.
The tall man's expression shifts. His frown deepens. In a blink, he's faster—so much faster. A blur.
I barely register the movement before a crushing force slams into my chest. A kick—vicious and deliberate. My breath leaves me in a strangled gasp.
"Ack—!"
The world spins, the rift surging toward me in a rush of light and distortion.
I reach for something—anything—but there's nothing to hold on to.
The last thing I see is his silhouette, watching me as I disappear into the swirling vortex—a rippling tear in reality..